All Things
by AnnaK82
Summary: Idealistic Albus Dumbledore was destined for a greatness he neither sought nor wanted. But when the entire wizarding world turns to him in a time of crisis, it seems the only destiny he does not control is his own.
1. The Bronze Horseman

**All Things**

by AnnaK

PROLOGUE: THE BRONZE HORSEMAN

_Behold the Image sit, and ride  
Upon his brazen horse astride!_  
--A. S. Pushkin, _The Bronze Horseman_

Had Olga Myshkina been standing in precisely the same spot two centuries earlier, she would have been knee-deep in green mud and battling mosquitoes. Even now, for all its regal beauty and glorious architecture, Petersburg was not a particularly easy city to live in. Nature, it seemed, had never forgiven Peter the Great for daring to build an empire's capital on a festering swamp, and sought revenge in the form of floods, disease, and a peculiar kind of cold that worst afflicted the throat, where each breath of December air lodged like a thousand shards of glass. Hunger was the most recent of these plagues; Olga noted, not without a grim sense of Russian irony, that the starved corpses had a heroic way of draping themselves at the base of the famous bronze monument to Peter the Great.

Olga herself was in no danger of starving. Hard times were good times for psychics, and though only a mediocre clairvoyant, she sensed a visit from a powerful client today. She scurried along the Angliiskaya Embankment rather more quickly than usual that morning and reached the door of her tiny shop several minutes before eight o'clock. She had just swept the table clean of spiders and smoothed her long silver hair when there came a sharp knock on the door.

'_Vkhodi_—' The word died on her lips as she recognised the thin, dark figure on her doorstep. A series of broken syllables seemed to tumble from her mouth against her will. '_I-izvinite_, _ya…ya ne_—'

He held up a bony hand. '_Zamolchites', starukha. U menya vremeni nyet_.' Enough, old woman. I don't have the time. The man's Caucasian accent was unmistakeable.

Olga stared. Though she had never met this man, she knew him instantly—there was not a wizard in Russia who would not have done. She remained rooted to the spot for a moment, her tiny mouth ajar, then grabbed a shimmering orb from the cupboard and sat down at the newly spiderless table. She tried to ignore the man's heavy gaze. With her thin, hunched frame, long nose, and beady eyes, Olga knew she must appear wholly insignificant. _Why would _he_ choose to come h—_

The Georgian cleared his throat. '_Ladno_,' Olga murmured, tracing a circular pattern on the crystal ball with her long fingers. '_Chto vas ozhidaet_?' What future awaits you? It was a well-practised phrase, but today her voice squeaked oddly.

There was a flash of gold in the crystal ball. '_Lev_,' she said as the figure swirled into focus. A lion. No—several lions, moving about the circumference of the ball. It looked to be a migration of some sort. '_L'vy…idut_….'

But the hooded man had stopped listening. Olga had to strain to make out his words: '_Lev—Leviny_!' A cold laugh poured through the Georgian's narrow nostrils. The sound made Olga shiver, and she could not help but wonder why he had mentioned the Levins, the best-known wizard family in Petersburg. She was grateful, however, that he had not asked her to interpret the symbols, for then she would have been lost indeed.

The lions vanished, and a terrible image rose to the surface. Four bodies aflame! Olga gasped; the sharp intake of that frigid, crystalline air made her choke and sputter. '_Mertvye, kakie mertvye_!' Deaths, such deaths!

The man's eyes glowed red, and at that moment Olga would not have been surprised to see a forked tongue dash out from his mouth. He said nothing, but leaned closer to the ball. Olga, too, peered into the sphere once again, her large, round ears flushing crimson.

One final image emerged—a wooden door held shut by a rather formidable-looking lock. A strange, faint sound seemed to come from the ball. It resembled a heartbeat, and crescendoed until the man rose abruptly. Olga averted her eyes from his horrifying face; the crystal ball now clearly showed the image of a red-eyed snake devouring an old grey mouse. The Georgian muttered something and swept out of the shop, taking pains to step over the motionless body of the psychic as he exited.

---

Even the decidedly self-possessed Eugene Calvus could not look without horror on the little piles of ash that had once been the members of the Levin family. It was Eugene's job to investigate and prepare a report on the events of 6th December, and his second task of the day seemed every bit as bad as the first. Eugene had spent the morning examining the body of Zviadi Dzhugashvili, whom all of Petersburg knew simply as The Georgian.

It was such a strange story. It was clear that Dzhugashvili had killed the Levins in their flat on the night of December the 6th. His motive was straightforward enough—he had been the leader of a militant Caucasian group whose aim was to overthrow the Russian Ministry for its recent annexation of the rebel Georgian province of Abkhazia. The Levins represented the most obvious and formidable threat to the cause. Dzhugashvili's own death was more puzzling, however. A Squib called Gremin had taken credit for the murder, but this was an obvious fabrication, as the Georgian's body had been covered with the traces of a potent magic Eugene had never encountered before. Eugene was left at a frustrating impasse: it was doubtful that anyone in Petersburg other than the Levins could have cast such a spell against the most feared Dark wizard in recent memory, but Dzhugashvili had conveniently murdered all the Levins before meeting his own end. How, then, had the Dark Lord been defeated?

Eugene frowned. It would not be easy to identify the Levins from the ashes. There were four piles in total — three near the back of the room and one further down the corridor, in front of an open door. Eugene turned to Grimstock, his sour-faced assistant, and Daria, the translator assigned to him by the Volsheburo, the Russian Ministry. 'I think,' he said, 'I think we may need to make use of the _Acclaro_ charm. Are you familiar with that, Daria Mikhailovna?'

'_Da_, though I have not performed it in many years.'

'A rare charm,' explained Eugene to Grimstock, 'that produces a sort of spectral image of a person's true physical appearance. Very useful when one is dealing with a criminal Metamorphmagus, as you can imagine. It becomes increasingly less reliable after death, but as it has been only a few days since the Levins were…' he swallowed, '…killed, I think we may still be able to see something. I confess I'm a bit rusty at it myself, but perhaps if you and I cast the charm together, Daria Mikhailovna….'

Eugene and Daria gathered round the first pile. 'Right, then,' Eugene sighed. 'On the count of three—'

'_Acclaro_!' they shouted in unison. The ashes trembled, and a wispy grey figure struggled to push itself out from them. Once free, it hovered several inches above the floor. Though the figure was hazy, Eugene could make out the features of an old woman.

'Sofia Levina, the matriarch, I believe,' said Eugene. Daria nodded in confirmation. 'Grimstock, please make a note of that.'

From the next pile of ashes rose the form of a young man. 'Mitya Levin,' said Daria in her guttural Petersburg accent. 'He was Head Boy at the Stolichnaya Wizarding Institute two years ago.'

Eugene winced at the sight of the next figure. It was a face he had seen countless times in the _Daily Prophet_: Konstantin Levin, who had comprised half of the most famous Auror team in Europe. The fourth mound of ashes, then, must contain the remains of Konstantin's partner and wife, Ekaterina. Sure enough, from the pile at the end of the corridor came the grey figure of a slender young woman, perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old.

'_Da_, that is Katya,' said Daria.

The three were silent for a moment, and even the stony Grimstock looked genuinely morose. Eugene stared into the large, sad eyes of Ekaterina Levina as her ghostly form sank into the ashes once more.

'Well,' he said softly, 'that is all of them. He was certainly thorough, this Dzhu—this Georgian fellow.'

'_Nyet_, Mr Calvus,' said Daria, her expression suddenly perplexed. 'Katya and Kostya had a little daughter. Tanya was her name, I think—Tatiana. I saw them together this summer in Letnii Park.'

Grimstock flipped through his notes. 'I have no record of that. Sofia, Konstantin, Ekaterina, and Dmitri are the only Levins registered by the Volsheb—'

'Tanya was not of age,' said Daria. 'She looked six years old, maybe seven. The Volsheburo does not register wizards until they enter school.'

'Very well,' said Eugene. 'I'm sure her ashes can't have got far.'

But a fifth mound of ash was not to be found; in fact, the trio could find no sign that a child had ever lived in the Levins' flat. After nearly four hours of fruitless searching, Grimstock had become very cross indeed.

'You were probably mistaken,' he barked at Daria. 'Perhaps you saw another child with Konstantin and Ekaterina, perhaps the daughter of one of their friends….'

'No,' she retorted, 'the girl looked just like Katya. The same dark eyes.'

Eugene felt that it was pointless to continue the investigation further that night, and sent Grimstock and Daria home. He magically locked the door of the Levins' flat and set off in the direction of his hotel, stopping along the way for a newspaper and a bottle of vodka. The skinny boy behind the desk in the hotel foyer looked up as Eugene walked in.

'Mr Calvus,' said the boy in very slow English, 'the Premier of the Volsheburo sends to you this—this—' he struggled to find the English word before resorting to Russian, '—_soobschenie_.'

Eugene took the envelope and thanked the boy, substituting his own poor Russian for the boy's broken English: '_Spasibo bolshoi_.' He climbed the stairs to his room and opened the letter.

_8th December_

_Dear Sir or Madam:_

_I have learnt that the Volsheburo has sought the assistance of the British Ministry of Magic in the investigation of the Levin case. I write to inform you of a strange incident that occurred here at the Stolichnaya Wizarding Institute regarding Ekaterina and Konstantin Levin's daughter, Tatiana. _

_Stolichnaya, like many wizarding schools around the world, keeps a master list of all students who will be invited to attend in the future. Upon hearing the news of the Levins' deaths yesterday, I inspected the list and was shocked to find the name of Tatiana Levina still upon it. The list, you see, has been bewitched to remove instantly the names of those students who are rendered unable to attend due to death or madness. However, the name of Tatiana Konstantinovna Levina remained on the Stolichnaya list until this afternoon, at which time it erased itself before my very eyes. I am at a loss as to what this might signify._

_Please do not hesitate to contact me if I can be of any assistance in your investigation of this tragic occurrence. I shall leave this letter in the hands of Andrei Andreevich Bolkonsky, Premier of the Volsheburo, in the hope that he will forward it to the appropriate party._

_Sincerely,_

_Fyodor Vladimirovich Lensky  
Headmaster, Stolichnaya Wizarding Institute_

Eugene put down the letter and rubbed his temples. This case was turning into a regular headache. It would be disastrous to his career if he were unable to find Tatiana, for this was likely to be the most important assignment he would ever be given. National Ministries normally conducted large investigations like these on their own, with some amount of secrecy. The Volsheburo, however, was at present so overwhelmed with the escalating civil unrest among both wizards and Muggles in addition to the ongoing fallout from the Crimea that it had enlisted the help of the Ministry of Magic and paid several thousand galleons for the service. 'See to it, Mr Calvus, that you do not embarrass Britain,' the Minister for Magic had admonished Eugene the morning he left for Russia.

Eugene reviewed the facts of the case in his mind. The girl had to be dead, he concluded. There could be no other explanation for the disappearance of her name from the Stolichnaya list. But why had her name taken so long to fade, and where was the body?

He poured himself a glass of vodka and opened his newspaper, desperate to take his mind off the missing girl. He leafed through page after page of Russian gibberish until his eye alighted to a familiar face.

He deciphered the caption under the photograph with difficulty. 'Nicolas Flamel,' it began. The next word required the use of a dictionary: '_missing_ since the evening of 6th December….' Disgusted, Eugene threw the newspaper aside. The last thing he wanted to read about was another disappearance. He poured himself a second glass of vodka. Granted, Butterbeer tasted much better, but the vodka was not completely unpleasant. _Quite the contrary, actually_, thought Eugene, his insides beginning to feel intoxicatingly warm….

Two hours later, Eugene stumbled outside for some air. His clumsy feet led him to Ulitsa Chaikovskogo, where a group of boisterous and strangely dressed people had gathered in the street.

Eugene approached a woman in a vile turquoise robe to find out what had happened. '_Chto sluchilos'_?' he slurred.

_'Gruzin pogib_!' The Georgian was defeated, she shouted happily.

The Georgian. Eugene knew he had heard that name before, but at present his mind came only in bits and pieces. 'Who killed—erm, that's English—_kto yemu_—no, it's _yevo_, isn't it. _Kto yevo ubil_?'

'Tanya Levina.'

His memory returned in a flood. He was standing in the Levins' street, in front of the Levins' flat, and all around him people were telling stories about how a seven-year-old girl had defeated the Dark Lord Zviadi Dzhugashvili.

'_Ona mertva_! _Ona umerla_!' She is dead, she died, he screamed, but his voice was lost as a firecracker exploded overhead. Eugene ran down to the river and along the embankment. He could still hear the voices of the revellers. He tripped over his feet and nearly fell, but caught himself on an iron railing. He pressed his stomach to the rail, looking over the icy expanse of the Neva and feeling quite ill. He turned around; before him towered a bronze god on horseback, who commanded the river Neva with an outstretched arm and who looked down on Eugene and the petty corpses at his feet with a twisted, knowing smile. Eugene attempted to reproach the giant for his heartlessness, but his tongue was thick and the words came out like sausage links. He ran at the monument, kicking its granite base, but Peter the Great did not flinch. Suddenly there was a sharp pain in the back of his head.

They took his wallet and his overcoat and, sniggering, merged again with the velvet night. Eugene got up after several minutes and trudged back to his hotel, his head pounding all the way. He sank into bed and began to fall into a deep sleep.

But the shards of a strange song permeated his consciousness.

_Ochi chernye, ochi strastnye,  
Ochi zhguchie i prekrasnye…_

Though Eugene's Russian was poor, he could certainly guess the occasion for this particular song. Just that afternoon, Daria had spoken about Tanya Levina's _ochi chernye_—dark eyes. He leaned out his window and shook his fist at the crowd of drunken young men below. 'She's dead, she's dead!' he screamed, his words unslurred.

And Tatiana _was_ dead—she had to be. Eugene finished his report in a scrawling, uneven hand. Gremin had killed Dzhugashvili and little Tanya had died with her family. He would leave Petersburg first thing the next morning.

But Tatiana Levina would haunt him for the rest of his life.

_A/N: Many thanks to Happydog. Also, please note that the word 'Caucasian' as used here refers to a place—the area between the Black and Caspian Seas comprising Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan—not a race. Thanks for reading!_


	2. The Sorting Hat

**All Things**

by AnnaK

CHAPTER ONE: THE SORTING HAT

_Pechal'no budet moi rasskaz._  
—Pushkin

'Here they are, Professor,' said the tiny gamekeeper to the tall witch standing in the doorway. 'The first years.'

'Thank you, Fenton,' said the golden-haired witch with a nod. As the bald dwarf hobbled away, the witch surveyed the crowd of eager eleven-year-olds before her. Her green eyes lingered for a moment on a rather small boy with messy black hair who jumped a bit when an outsize tentacle surfaced in the lake to the right. The gangly red-haired boy standing next to him smiled.

'Step inside, please,' said the witch, holding open the door with a steady hand. The first years whispered nervously to one another as they shuffled into a great stone room with double doors and a winding staircase that led off somewhere out of sight. When the last of them had stepped inside, the witch strode to the front of the room and turned to face the students.

'Good evening,' she said in a well-modulated voice. 'Behind these doors is the Great Hall. Your fellow students, as well as your professors, are already inside.'

She cleared her throat. 'My name is Professor Juno Hegel. In just a few moments, you will be sorted into one of four Houses: Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, or Slytherin. The other members of your House will become a sort of family to you during your time at Hogwarts; you will live with them, attend classes with them, and spend your free time in the House common rooms. For exceptional achievements and class preparation, you will be awarded points toward your House total; for rule breaking and poor class performance you will lose points. At the end of the year, the House that has accumulated the highest total number of points will be awarded the House Cup, and a feast will be held in their honour.'

A firm smile appeared on the witch's face, revealing two rows of perfectly even teeth. 'There,' she said, 'I think that's everything of immediate importance. Excuse me for a moment; I must ask the Headmaster if he is ready for us.'

As soon as she had gone, the gangly red-haired boy turned to his friend, who was gripping his wand very tightly beneath his robes. 'We're inside now, Gil,' he whispered. 'I think we're safe.'

Gil did not look convinced. 'Constant—'

'—Vigilance,' finished the red-haired boy, his light blue eyes twinkling. Gil grunted in reply.

At that moment, the double doors swung open and Professor Hegel was before them once again. 'It's time,' she said, smiling. 'Don't be afraid.'

The first years poured into the Great Hall, heads turning in every direction. The first thing the red-haired boy noticed was the ceiling: it was black and endless, with thousands of glowing stars. To his left and right he saw four enormous tables, each decorated in a different colour and surrounded by noisy students, while at the other end of the hall was a fifth table, where older witches and wizards were sitting in ornate golden chairs. Gil didn't seem to be taking any of this in, however; he was glaring at the candles floating through the air, taking pains not to let any hover directly above his head.

Professor Hegel grabbed a wooden stool and an ancient-looking hat from the Staff Table and walked briskly to the centre of the hall, placing the stool on the floor and the hat on top of it. Everyone looked on as the hat's brim opened wide and it began to sing:

_One thousand seven years ago,  
When fair Hogwarts was born,  
Old Gryffindor encountered me,  
A clever hat, though torn._

_'We pick our students now by hand,'  
Quoth he t' the Founders Four,  
But when we've gone, this magic hat  
Shall choose forevermore._

_'Let's each enchant this hat in turn,'  
He said, and they complied.  
They summoned up their powers great  
And left some here, inside._

_'Twas Godric who went first; spake he:  
'Obey ye, hat, my plot:  
To Gryffindor shall always go  
The bravest of the lot.'_

_Rowena next; to Ravenclaw  
I'll send the sharpest minds,  
While Helga Hufflepuff preferred  
Those diligent and kind._

_Shrewd Salazar was last; his House  
Completes the Hogwarts Four.  
In Slytherin you'll find the ones  
Ambitious to the core._

_So step right up and slip me on;  
I've never yet been wrong.  
I'll tell you now, beyond a doubt,  
In which House you belong._

The hall erupted in wild applause and the Sorting Hat made a series of elaborate bows. Then, Professor Hegel produced a scroll from the sleeve of her burgundy robe, cleared her throat, and read:

'Arvana, Emily!'

A plain girl with chestnut hair and a face full of freckles emerged from the back of the crowd. Sitting alone in the middle of the Great Hall, she looked absurdly tiny; the red-haired boy noticed that her feet barely scraped the floor. Professor Hegel smiled broadly and placed the Sorting Hat on the girl's head.

'GRYFFINDOR!' shouted the hat a moment later. The red table on the left cheered raucously as she joined them.

This process was repeated as 'Baggish, Bertha!' became a Slytherin and 'Banger, Iain!' a Ravenclaw. The red-haired boy hummed nervously under his breath as his name approached. All he knew about Hogwarts he had learned from his mother, Adeia; his father, though a member of a very famous wizarding family, had not possessed enough magical talent to be invited to school. His mother, he knew, had been a Gryffindor ('It's by far the best,' she had said, before quickly adding, 'though I suppose the other Houses must have _some_ merits'), but his father's family was long associated with Ravenclaw House.

'Crane, Julia!'

'HUFFLEPUFF!'

'Devine, Lionel!'

'RAVENCLAW!'

'Dinsmore, Beulah!'

'HUFFLEPUFF!'

'Dumbledore, Albus!'

A loud whisper rose from the crowd. The red-haired boy shot a quizzical look at Gil, who gave a little shrug, and then walked resolutely toward Professor Hegel. The Sorting Hat fell upon his head.

_Another Dumbledore, eh_? whispered the hat. _Though not quite like the others. A brilliant mind, yes, that's to be expected, but I think I may say…oh my, yes…I've never seen talent like this, not in a thousand years. Extraordinary. How unlucky for poor Mr Devine, he did think so much of himself…. _The Sorting Hat chuckled. _But even your professors will have a devil of a time keeping up with you, I daresay. So where shall I put you? Hmm…._

Albus' mind was swimming. _I've never seen talent like this_…he had heard that exact phrase once before, from the strange man who had sold him his wand (willow and phoenix feather, fourteen and one-quarter inches). He hadn't known what to make of it then, and even now he could scarcely believe it was true. He knew little about magic, for his mother didn't like to use it in front of his father, and since he had _always_ possessed a certain talent for producing minor magical catastrophes whenever he wasn't perfectly calm, he'd never had reason to believe his ability was in any way unusual. Quite the contrary, in fact: by his accounts, the life he led in rural Berkshire was the very image of normalcy. He lived in a small stone house with his parents and younger brother; Gil and his family lived next door. Though architecturally identical, the two houses could not have been more different on the inside. It was difficult to find an inch of surface space in the Dumbledore house that was not cluttered with books, bizarre and exotic plants, or the discarded pages of an early draft of Albus' father's latest concerto. Even scarcer than clean surfaces, however, were moments of quiet. Between Albus and his father, the piano was often in use eight hours or more each day, and his mother had a habit of singing Mozart to herself as she tended to her plants. Explosive noises resounded several times daily from the direction of Albus' brother's room, and Isolde the sheepdog liked to chime in with the occasional howl. Gil's house, in contrast, was silent as a catacomb and never had so much as a Sneakoscope out of place. The colourful books that stood in alphabetical order on the shelves were nothing like the 'great works of Muggle literature' that filled Albus' house; they were enormous and had fascinating titles such as _Harmless Housepet or Atrocious Animagus: A Vigilant Wizard's Guide to Telling the Difference_.

Albus Dumbledore's childhood wasn't perfect, but it was a reasonable imitation thereof. He lived in a small town that liked to call itself the oldest in England; it was a bucolic paradise with a strange and beautiful town hall that, as Adeia Dumbledore liked to observe, could only have been built by wizards. Albus spent his mornings with books (he was mostly responsible for his own education now, for his parents had given up on tutoring him long ago and were now trying—though without much success—to teach his younger brother to read), his afternoons with Beethoven, Schubert, and Mozart, and his evenings with Gil. Sometimes, during the Arcadian days of summer, he and Gil would run the six miles to Oxford to visit what was really a most fantastic sweets shop. They would return late in the evening and sit in the Albert Park, playing wizard's chess and eating sherbet lemons out of a brown paper bag.

It was on just such an evening that Albus and Gil were attacked by vultures. Gil noticed them first, of course, and jumped so high that he was momentarily as tall as Albus. When Albus saw the two enormous birds barrelling in their direction, he was so startled that a rather unfortunate event occurred: the head of the newly-erected statue of Prince Albert in the park somehow detached itself from the neck and fell to the ground, breaking neatly into three pieces. Albus had not had time to contemplate the severity of his mother's reaction, for he and Gil had started running as fast as they could toward their respective houses. Albus reached the knob and slammed the door behind him breathlessly.

Albus' father looked up from the piano. 'Albus,' he said, 'What—'

He was interrupted by a large mass of feathers that crashed through an open window. The vulture dropped something small and white into Albus' hands, ruffled its feathers imperiously, and flew out the window once again.

It was a letter with an unfamiliar wax seal. Turning it over, Albus saw that it was addressed to one _Albus Dumbledore, Park Road, Abingdon, Berkshire_.

'Obviously Hogwarts is a bit behind the times—it seems owl post is all the rage these days. You're lucky, though,' said Albus' father with a note of amusement in his voice, 'My brothers had their letters delivered by vampire bats.'

The crowd in the Great Hall began to murmur. Several minutes had passed since Albus had put on the hat. Now keenly aware of the hundreds of pairs of eyes staring at him, Albus felt a small knot start to form in the pit of his stomach. _Why is it taking so long? _he wondered.

_You're a difficult one_, said the hat. _I imagine our celebrated Founders would have had one of their famous rows over you. Besides that, I don't often get the chance to influence the world's destiny with one decision._

_What—_

The hat interrupted Albus' thoughts. _Why the confusion, my boy? You're one of a kind, the greatest genius since Merlin—you have potential your classmates could never dream of. And I must make certain to sort you into the House that will best develop that potential._

_How can I believe that?_ he thought wildly, looking round at his restless classmates. _They don't look any different from me…I've never_ felt_ like a genius…._

_They say modesty is a virtue,_ said the hat with a laugh. _Never thought much of it myself, to be honest. It's strange—most people, at some point in their lives, must face the unpleasant truth that they are perfectly mediocre. But you, dear boy, will one day have to learn to accept your own matchlessness. You will never be like your classmates, and they will never be like you. For now, though, we'll make it _'GRYFFINDOR!'

The applause in the hall was deafening, though Albus could not decide whether the Gryffindors were extraordinarily proud to have him or whether everyone was simply relieved the hat had finally made its decision. The older Gryffindors cheered him and shook his hand ('Good to have you in Gryffindor!' shouted the beefy prefect), and Emily, the other Gryffindor first year, gave him a shy smile. In the midst of all this excitement, and after such a long and exhausting train ride, it was easy to put the Sorting Hat's words out of his mind. Albus didn't particularly want to think about them anyway.

'Kunkel, Harvey!' called Professor Hegel.

'HUFFLEPUFF!"

'Malfoy, Icarus!'

The boy who approached the Sorting Hat had silver-blond hair and a long face which, at the moment, was looking rather green. His lower lip quivered visibly as the hat dropped over his eyes, and he looked almost as if he were whispering something. After nearly a minute, the hat heaved a sigh and shouted:

'SLYTHERIN!'

Icarus smiled a watery smile and joined his cheering comrades at the green table.

'Ménage, Georges!'

'HUFFLEPUFF!'

'Moody, Gilgamesh!'

For the second time that night, Albus felt a knot in his stomach. Until Professor Hegel had called Gil's name, Albus had never considered the fact that he and the only other person he knew at Hogwarts might be sorted into separate Houses. A wave of anxiety passed over him, and to his horror he noticed that the edge of the red Gryffindor tablecloth had started to turn silver. Fortunately, it was not long before the hat bellowed:

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Relieved, Albus cheered and whistled as Gil ran over to the Gryffindor table. 'Well done, Gil,' he said, trying to sound casual. 'From what mum told me, I was sure you'd end a Hufflepuff.'

'Nah, mate,' said Gil. 'I've got to keep my wizard's chess winning streak alive, haven't I?'

Albus laughed. Gil had never won a game of wizard's chess in his life, including the time when Albus had fallen asleep halfway through the game and awoken to find that all but two of his pieces had mysteriously left the board.

'Phlegmingsworth, Nicolas!' called Professor Hegel, and a smug-looking boy with black hair sauntered over to the stool.

'SLYTHERIN!' shouted the hat.

'Podge, Margaret!'

A very pretty girl with curly strawberry-blond hair walked forward. Albus noticed that many of the boys at the Gryffindor table were suddenly looking very interested in the Sorting.

'GRYFFINDOR!'

The girl beamed and took a seat next to Emily Arvana. For some reason, Albus found himself cheering even more loudly than he'd done for Gil, and Professor Hegel had to clear her throat twice before the hall was quiet enough for her to continue with 'Trelawney, Cassandra!' When 'Wolfe, Hannibal' had been made a Slytherin and Professor Hegel had cleared the hat and the stool from the hall, the wizard sitting at the centre of the High Table rose stiffly. He clapped his hands twice and the hall fell silent.

'Greetings, students,' he said in a reedy baritone. 'Welcome to another year at Hogwarts. I trust your summer holidays have left you well rested and eager to resume the enrichment of your young minds. For those first years among you who may not know, I am Zephaniah Sagramore Gunther Stidworthington, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Order of Merlin, Second Class, and winner of the prestigious Kloppenberg Prize, which I won for my groundbreaking and highly influential research into the history of goblin dwellings in south-western Patagonia.'

Albus looked round the Gryffindor table. Everyone was sitting very straight and keeping very still except for tiny Emily Arvana, whose mouth was twitching at the corners. He turned his attention back to the portly, grey-haired Headmaster; the expression on the old man's face was fabulously pompous. Albus' eyes twinkled.

'I have several important announcements to make before our feasting shall commence. Some of you may have noticed a new face at the High Table. I would like to introduce Professor Heisenberg, who will succeed Professor Nebula as our Master of Divination.'

A squat, cheerful-looking witch stood up and waved a stubby-fingered hand at the students. There was a smattering of lacklustre applause.

'And, of course, Professor Nebula's duties as Deputy Headmaster will be assumed by Professor Juno Hegel, our Master of Transfiguration.'

Professor Hegel nodded her head, and the applause in the hall grew a bit heartier.

Stidworthington clapped his hands and the hall was silent once again. 'Ahem. Caretaker Cerberus Filch has graciously compiled a list of some two hundred forty-seven items which are officially banned on the grounds of Hogwarts. To this list I personally have added another twelve hundred sixty-eight such items. Your House Prefects will distribute copies of this list to the individual students in their House; it is your duty to commit these to memory and to return the list, signed, to Caretaker Filch's office no later than sunset tomorrow.

'And, as usual, I must remind you that the Forbidden Forest is off-limits to those who do not wish to be expelled from this most excellent institution. And now,' he said, clapping his hands once more, 'let us begin.'

The Gryffindor table sagged a little under the weight of all the food that had suddenly materialised on it. Albus stared for a moment, not sure whether to begin with the mountain of potatoes or the pile of pork chops. 'Whassamatta?' asked Gil, who had apparently given up his habit of scrutinising every morsel before it passed through his lips and was now gnawing savagely on a leg of lamb.

A platter loaded with lemon and berry tarts caught Albus' eye, and he piled the desserts so high on his plate that they almost touched his chin. When his plate was clean once again, he was quite astounded to find that he had no room left for supper.

Headmaster Stidworthington rose to his feet and clapped his hands with a flourish. The food vanished at once, leaving the tables cluttered with sparkling gold plates. The headmaster looked as if on the verge of another florid speech, but to Albus' surprise he spoke only five words: 'Bedtime. Prefects, lead the way.'

'First years!' called the beefy Gryffindor Prefect. 'First years, follow me!'

The Prefect led them into the Entrance Hall and stood on the first step of the winding stone staircase. 'My name's Flynn, Flynn Doyle,' he said. 'I'll take you up to Gryffindor Tower in a moment. The staircases move, so make sure you stay right behind me. Oh, and the password's "flibbertigibbet," you'll need to remember that. Right, then, are we all ready?'

At that moment, the door to the Entrance Hall creaked open and the first-year Slytherins entered in a line. Leading them was a pretty, dark-eyed girl wearing a Prefect's badge. 'Erm…hang on a minute,' said Flynn, running off in the girl's direction.

Gil yawned. 'Don't fall asleep yet,' said Albus, laughing. 'We've still got to memorise that list of forbidden items tonight, remember?'

Gil groaned. 'You don't suppose there'll be a test—'

He was interrupted by the approach of three Slytherin boys. 'Hello,' said the shortest boy, who had black hair and a lazy voice. 'I'm Nicolas, and this is Hannibal and Icarus. You're a Dumbledore, then?' he said.

Albus nodded, feeling unaccountably nervous.

'I thought all Dumbledores were Ravenclaws.'

Albus' throat was tight, and he could feel his feet beginning to lift off the floor.

'Obviously not,' said Gil, clutching his wand very tightly.

Nicolas' black eyes did not even flicker in Gil's direction. 'Go on, then,' he said. 'Which one's your father? Apocryphus, Abscessus, or Apoplexus?'

'Er…Antithesis,' said Albus, and his feet, to his very great relief, touched the ground once again.

'Antithesis?' asked the tall, dark boy standing behind Nicolas. 'I've never heard of him.'

'Quiet, Hannibal,' said Nicolas. A nauseating smirk crept onto his face. 'Antithesis. He's the youngest son, isn't he? The _Squib_?'

Hannibal guffawed. 'A Dumbledore Squib? There can't…Nicolas…you're joking…that can't be true!'

'It _is_ true, isn't it, Dumbledore? Mum told me about it last summer. Said they would never have made Apocryphus Dumbledore Minister of Magic if they knew Squib blood ran in the family.' Nicolas sneered. 'No wonder they keep that hushed up, what a disgrace….'

Albus felt a strange sort of burning sensation behind his eyeballs. He had never realised that having a non-magical father might be something to be ashamed of. The metallic, constricted voice that came from his throat seemed not his own. 'My father is not a d—'

'Oh, yeah, I'm sure your uncles and grandparents are all right proud of him…and you,' scoffed Nicolas. 'Send you lots of presents on your birthday, do they?'

The burning sensation was spreading. It crept down Albus' neck and spine, crawled along his arms, and seemed to concentrate itself in his fingertips. He looked frantically at Gil, whose eyes were fearful; he had seen the sorts of things that happened when Albus was angry.

'Look, just…just leave him alone.' Gil's voice was hushed but intense. 'Leave him alone and nothing bad will ha—'

'I bet you've never even met your grandparents, have you, Dumbledore? Bet they won't have anything to do with the likes of you. Can't say I blame them. Why they didn't just drown your father when he was born is beyond me.'

Several people had turned to watch, but they were the least of Albus' concerns. Every inch of his skin now felt aflame. He could see his own reflection in Nicolas' eyes; the image was terrible indeed. Something made him reach for his wand. He lifted it high above his head…on Nicolas' face was a look of genuine terror….

A moment passed. Nothing happened.

Nicolas and Hannibal dissolved into peals of laughter. 'Taking after your father already, _Dumbledore_?' Nicolas shrieked. 'Come on, then, lads, wouldn't want people to see us hanging around this sort…give them the wrong idea….' He was laughing so hard that his words were almost unintelligible.

The three Slytherins walked away, but the blond Icarus, who had been silent the entire time, gave Albus a weak smile as he passed.

'Don't worry about them, mate,' Gil whispered. 'Everyone knows Slytherin's full of bloody gits. They don't know anything. Nothing at all.'

'He's right,' said a Gryffindor boy who was almost as tall as Albus. 'I've got Squib blood in my family too…not that my family's anything like as famous as yours.' The boy gave a goofy grin. 'I'm Douglas Ploot.'

'Gil Moody,' said Gil, 'And this is—'

'Albus Dumbledore,' said Albus, trying to force a smile onto his face. His skin still felt unbearably hot.

A very pretty girl with strawberry-blond ringlets stepped forward. Albus' stomach flipped. Had she seen what had happened?

'My dad's a Muggle—that's even worse than a Squib,' she said with a smile.

'Both of my parents are Muggles,' piped the soft, high voice belonging to Emily Arvana.

'Besides, Squib father or not, you're still a _Dumbledore_,' said Douglas, looking awestruck. 'My dad reckons Apoplexus Dumbledore's the best thing that ever happened to Puddlemere United—'

'And Abscessus Dumbledore saved my brother's life last year at St Mungo's,' said the strawberry-blonde Margaret. She wrinkled her upturned nose. 'Stupid prat, mum caught him drinking her cleaning potions.'

'Sounds like he'd get on quite well with Albus' brother,' said Gil, grinning at Albus.

Albus laughed, the last traces of his anger evaporating. Drinking cleaning potions _did_ seem like the kind of thing six-year-old Aberforth Dumbledore might try; fortunately, Albus' mother wasn't particularly fond of housework and didn't keep cleaning potions around the house.

'Sorry about that,' called Flynn the Prefect, hurrying back to the great stone staircase. 'Aparna and I had to discuss some very important…erm…Prefects' business.' His cheeks turned a very pale pink. 'Right, then, follow me.'

As the weary first years trudged through the maze of shifting staircases up to Gryffindor Tower, Albus felt a different sort of warmth seem to spread over him. It was a very pleasant feeling. The Gryffindors hadn't found anything horrible in having a Squib father; none of them had a perfect family either. Albus pulled on his pyjamas thinking how very nice it was to feel that he was a part of a team—that he _belonged_. And yet….

The voice in the back of his mind sounded remarkably like that of the Sorting Hat. _You will never be like your classmates, and they will never be like you…you are matchless…one of a kind_….

'Gil!' he whispered.

'What is it?' asked Gil sleepily.

'Come here,' said Albus, pulling Gil into a corner of the Boys' Dormitory where Douglas and the other two Gryffindor boys could not hear.

Albus suddenly felt very awkward. 'Erm…Gil,' he said, 'what did the Sorting Hat say to you…you know, when you were sitting there…'

'Well, it didn't have time to say much, did it? Told me I had some courage and a decent mind and wished me good luck in Gryffindor.' He paused. 'Why? What'd it say to you?'

'Erm…well, it was quite funny, really…' Albus forced himself to laugh, but the noise he produced sounded horrifyingly false. 'It said…it must have been playing some sort of joke on me, I reckon…it said it hadn't seen such talent in a thousand years…that I was the greatest genius since Merlin.' He laughed again, sounding even less sincere than last time.

Gil smiled. 'Well, of course it did, mate! What are you so nervous about?'

'Wait, you—you think it was right?'

There was a strange look in Gil's eyes. 'What are you playing at?'

'I'm—I don't understand.'

'You really don't know?' said Gil incredulously. 'Of course you're a genius! Exactly _how_ many times have you won against me in wizard's chess? I can't even win when I cheat!'

'But that doesn't mean—'

'You learned to read before you were _two_. I could barely put a sentence together, and you were quoting Goethe—_in the original French_—'

'German,' said Albus gently.

'German, then,' said Gil, waving his hand dismissively. 'And let's not forget that you're quite the prodigy at the piano. You could play Beethoven sonatas when you were five—_without ever taking a lesson_. Not exactly what you'd call average, mate. You never realised that?'

'No,' said Albus softly. Playing the piano was just something he'd always been able to do; to him it seemed no different from walking.

'Honestly, Albus—you never compared yourself to me or Aberforth? Can you really never have noticed that you've always been better than me at _everything_?'

'I just thought you didn't care for the piano. If you practised as much as I do—'

'Not just the piano—_everything_. What about all those…those _things_ that happen whenever you get excited?'

'Mum says that happens to all wizard children!'

'Maybe so,' said Gil, his voice growing louder and higher, 'but the most impressive thing I've ever done is explode a few of mum's Dark detectors, and that was when I was really angry. _You_ made the city of Oxford disappear. Sent it back in time a thousand years. It took fifty wizards from the Ministry to sort that whole mess out.'

'I didn't do it on purpose!' said Albus in a panic. 'I can't control what happens!'

'Calm down, mate—I know,' said Gil, looking half exasperated and half admiring. 'But dad said that was very advanced magic. He said he didn't know any _trained_ wizards who could cast a spell that complicated. And you did it without even meaning to.' Gil chuckled and shook his head. 'It's not easy being your best friend sometimes, you know?'

Albus closed his eyes. It was too much to think about when he was so tired. 'But why didn't you tell me any of this?' he said softly.

'I thought you knew.'

'Why hasn't anyone ever said anything? Mum—mum's always telling Aberforth he's so smart, so brave, so talented…'

'Well, it's not easy to think well of yourself when there's somebody like you around, is it? She knows Aberforth can't help thinking he'll never measure up. I have to say I understand how he feels, poor bloke. If I wasn't your best friend, you know, I'd probably hate you.'

Albus sighed. 'I never had any idea…I never thought I was any different from anybody else. It's not my fault, you know…I never asked for this….'

'Oh, don't start feeling sorry for yourself,' said Gil. 'For a genius, you're really bloody thick sometimes. Do you know what I'd give to have what you've got?' He grinned. 'Except your nose, of course. I don't know if I ever told you this, but—it's a bit crooked, mate.'

Albus didn't know what to say. He supposed Gil meant to make him smile, but the best he could manage was a wobbly approximation.

'Oh, come off it. Here,' said Gil, pulling out a small bag from his discarded robes. 'Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.' Gil chose a red bean from the bag and popped it in his mouth. 'Mmm…cherries jubilee. Go on, have some.'

Silently, Albus chose a spotty orange bean and put it in his mouth.

A moment later, the bean and most of the contents of Albus' stomach were lying in an unattractive pile on the floor of the Boys' Dormitory. 'Ugh!' said a green-eyed Gryffindor boy. 'What flavour was that?'

Albus coughed. 'Vomit, I think,' he said, laughing a little. 'Tasted the same going down as it did coming up.'

The Gryffindors laughed, and despite the awful taste burning in the back of his throat, Albus reckoned he felt a little better.

_A/N: The epigram for this chapter ('Pechal'no budet moi rasskaz') also comes from Pushkin's epic poem _The Bronze Horseman_ and literally means 'Sad will my tale be.' And as with most Pushkin, it's far more elegant in Russian than in English!_

_Thanks again to Happydog._


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